Innocent Intervention
by Nefastus
Summary: Saint-noun:Officially recgnoized as preeminent for holiness. Boondock Saint-noun:Brother vigilantes told by God to rid the world of corruption. Cara-noun:Ex waitress turned fugitave just trying to stay alive. O God, entrust her to Thy Shepherd's care.Amen
1. Chapter 1: Peter Ricconi

A/N: ^_^ First chapter, enjoy!

~o~o~

There was blood everywhere. On the walls, the floor, even the ceiling. Men were strewn across the floor in grotesque heaps of twisted and broken limps. Bullets and bullet holes painted this battlefield in varying designs of deadly accuracy and desperately failed attempts of survival.

In the middle of this display of butchery stood three men clad in black coats. They walked from corpse to corpse, placing their arms across their chests and pennies over their closed eyes.

One man was lying in the debris of a wooden crate near the loading door. His legs were broken badly, he could see the bones sticking out of one, and his right arm was twisted out of its socket and underneath him. The pain was unbearable. Each breath was a knife to his chest, and everything around him had a sick red tinge to it. He gazed upward, begging God to put him out of his misery, to release him from the pain.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement. Weakly he turned his head. There, in the shadows, not three feet from him, cowering behind a forklift was a man. His hair was very short, it stuck up all over the place, and his wide brown eyes were wet with fear. The frightened man looked at the dying one for just a moment.

_Help me. Please, help me._

The dying man pleaded with his eyes and in his mind. His mouth was so full of blood; he could barely swallow, or draw a breath to spit it out.

The frightened man cringed, looked away and shook his head. Desperate the dying man tried to reach for him, his arm barely twitched.

_For the love of God, HELP ME!_

Shaking the frightened man clutched his head. It was too much; everything had gone so wrong so fast. Worst of all no one knew how. No one had snitched. How had _they_ found them?

Tears were leaking out of the frightened man's eyes as he looked around for his chance to escape. The three dark men were all poised above different bodies; they hadn't noticed the frightened one, cowering in the dark. This was his chance. Choking back a sob the frightened man gave the dying man one last look and ran for his life out the door.

The three men turned at the sound of frantic feet hitting pavement. One ran to the door, fired a shot, but it was too late. The frightened man had gotten away.

The dying man gurgled blood, his scream of rage, and his fingers on his good hand curled into a fist. The coward had ran. He'd left him here, offered no help; he'd betrayed them all to save himself. The dying man stared at the tin ceiling, begging God to end his suffering.

One of the dark men approached and stood over him. He raised his pistol to the dying man's chest. This was it, his salvation. He took a deep breath.

The dying man watched then in disbelief when the dark man paused as if to reconsider and then leaned in close. He could see the dark man's face, his clear sharp blue eyes. They looked deep into his soul, saw the corruption there and he suddenly felt as if he was being burned alive.

The dark man whispered something to him. A question. The dying man would have remained silent, even under further torture, for any other question. But not this one. It filled him with quiet vindication as he listened. This was not a question he would die for. He would gladly tell this dark man what he wanted.

Sucking in a rattling breath he whispered, "Peter Ricconi."

Blood trickled down his lips, his body was on fire. Each breath seemed to take an eternity and ripped at his chest. Where was his salvation, who could end this burning torture? End this agony?

The dying man looked up into the fierce blue eyes of the dark man. The pistol was directly over his failing heart, it would be quick, it would be merciful.

He stared up at this man. His lips moved, he was saying something. The dying man's eyes caught sight of the rough cross dangling around the dark man's neck. Yes, God had heard him; God had sent someone to help him escape the pain.

"…Spiritu Sancti…"

The dying man heard these cleansing, calming words and knew that God hadn't just sent him a man to end his suffering. He'd sent him a saint.

Three blocks away Peter heard the shot echo back to him from the warehouse as he ran for his life in the muddy back alleys of Chicago.

~o~o~


	2. Chapter 2: Il Palazzo

A/N: Second chapter, new people, but no Saints. Sorry guys. They'll be making their official introduction in the next chapter, (which is going to be action packed, very excited about it ^_^), along with a few other familiar faces. Enjoy!

It was cold. The air was thick with the smell of rain and smoke. Dead leaves scattered on the grimy street stuck to Cara's worn heels. She stood outside of a drab door, her hand resting on the rusting doorknob, while the other supported a box awkwardly against her right hip.

A gust of icy wind blew down the deserted alley and she huddled deeper into her dark coat. Cara glanced over at the bustling traffic, where'd she come from.

There at the opening of the alley, slightly in the shadows, stood a man. He was playing with a cigarette, twirling it absently between his fingers, and seemed entirely oblivious to her and the rest of the world. A chill ran down Cara's spine sending goose bumps marching across her arms. She watched him a moment longer, there wasn't anything to suggest he was out of the ordinary, just another pedestrian out on the town, but it didn't stop her from thinking.

'_Dangerous.'_

Shivering slightly she wiped the rotting leaves off her shoes and turned the handle. Pushing against the door with her shoulder she rearranged the box so she held it with both hands and stepped into the building.

It was a madhouse.

Cooks were going one way, food another, and pots and various other kitchen utensils zinged after them. The smell of frying meat and steaming vegetables was thick in the foggy kitchen and Cara felt an intense wave of warm, humid air sandblast her face as she closed the door.

People were racing all around, shouting orders, curses, and unintelligible threats. Frantic waitresses flew in and out of double doors bearing trays heaped with sizzling food and filthy dishes. A half dozen cooks ran the grills, sweating in the heat as the flames licked the roasting meat. For every order the girls threw up they'd stream a slew of curses in harsh Italian.

Cara surveyed the scene, gave the door a good kick with her back still facing it, (it tended to stick in wet weather), and managed to just dodge a harassed looking young cook lugging a basket of potatoes. After ducking under a serving plate loaded down with pasta she weaved her way through the chaos towards the back.

Squeezing by a rather robust chef she slipped into the break /extra storage room. It had a single dirty bulb hanging from the ceiling. The poor lighting illuminated food crates and assorted boxes crammed to the ceiling on one side of the room. The other was taken up by a cluttered table. There were two chairs, a small radio, and on the wall by the door was an older than sin punch card machine next to a cracked mirror.

Gently, Cara placed the box and her purse on the rickety table, hung her coat up on a nearby hook, and punched in her card. Fixing her name tag on her shirt Cara glanced in the mirror. She quickly evaluated herself, from her crisp black button up shirt, over her matching knee length skirt, and down to her second hand heels. Her hair was a little frizzed and flat from the rain. Cara frowned, ran her fingers through the dark strands, and brushed the shorter pieces out from her eyes.

'_Hm, better.' _She mused to herself.

There was the sound of metal hitting tile and then, "CARA! Hurry up! Elena's sick, food's getting out half an hour late, and I've got about a dozen people waiting in line for a place to sit! We're dying out here!"

_Shit. _

Cara quickly smoothed down her uniform one last time and then plunged into the chaos of the kitchen. Coming out she just skirted a large chrome pot oozing half baked pasta onto the muddy floor, the aftermath of the crash, and made her way to the entrance to the dining room.

Isabel was waiting by the double doors sporting two trays, both nearly overflowing with food, and looked like she might cry when she caught sight of Cara.

"About time, ugh, I thought you'd never get here. We're completely swamped tonight and short staffed more than usual. I've got about four parties out there that haven't even gotten their drinks yet and Natalie's about to knock somebody out."

Cara offered her a wry smile, "Sounds like a typical night." She nodded to the trays. "Are you going to want help setting those up before I go see about Natalie?"

"Oh god, would you? My shoulder's are about to pop out of their sockets." Isabel gratefully handed over one of the overloaded trays. Cara took it, careful not to spill the soups, and held open the 'out' door to the dining hall. Isabel slipped through and took off amongst the packed restaurant.

Cara followed quickly behind her, making note of the few tables that were empty, the ones that still needed to be served, and those that needed to be bused. It was crowded as usual, and the other waitresses running around were few, but their patrons didn't seem to mind. The atmosphere was cheery with the more well to do branch of society. Smartly dressed guests relaxed at similar crisp white tables, leaned back in matching gold back chairs, and drank their wine from twin crystal glasses. The heavy drapes shielded from the dreary weather and the soft glow of dozens of candles and ornate chandeliers gave the restaurant a romantic feel.

At _Il Palazzo's _that was what you paid for. Authentic, five star, Italian food, wine, atmosphere, and service. People had to reserve a year in advance for a table at any major holiday and they paid well for it. Il Palazzo had a reputation as one of most expensive and distinguished Italian restaurants in Boston. The food and wine were imported straight from Italy and all of the waitresses had to be fluent in Italian. It was a jewel of a restaurant and everyone that worked there took pride in it. They worked hard to keep up with its reputation; which meant they knew how to serve delicious food and how to keep a secret.

Isabel stopped short at a large table, smiling and apologizing for the wait. She deftly served the food asking if there was anything else that the party wanted. They all seemed rather pleased, the overly surgically enhanced wife the only exception. She raised her pencil sharp nose haughtily as Cara served her; sighing irritatingly when Cara had to lean across her elbow to rearrange a butter dish.

The two finished doling out the dishes, Isabel giggling at some joke one of the men made, and politely excused themselves. The wife rolled her squinty eyes, obviously less than impressed.

As they were hurrying away Cara raised an inquiring eyebrow at Isabel. The other girl shrugged helplessly, "She's been like that all night. I think it's because her husband's been trying to flirt with me since he walked in the door." Cara snorted, rolling her eyes. Isabel sighed, "Sad, huh?"

She suddenly snapped her fingers, "Oh, and don't forget we have that party after hours tonight, in the smoking room, it's you and me serving. Shouldn't be more than eight or so guys, but by the way Marcos was freaking out this afternoon they're going to be late nighters."

Cara groaned and Isabel made a sympathetic face, "Yep, another five o'clock bed time for us."

"When are they supposed to arrive?"

"Not until after hours, the other girls will stay until then and help clean up, but no one's allowed in the smoking room so don't seat anyone there. Marcos has been in and out all night arranging it himself."

Cara cocked her head, "Himself? You don't think it's the owner? I can't imagine anyone else would warrant that much attention."

Isabel shrugged back. "Who knows? I would assume him as well by the way Marcos is behaving, but you never know. It seems Marcos has been having a lot of after hour parties lately. I just hope this is the last one because if it's just you and me serving another six hour shift for one party I'm going to kill myself."

She started heading back towards the kitchens, "But anyway, I'll talk to you at closing, you know my boyfriend Peter? He's been acting really nervous lately, but he won't leave my apartment and he gets so depressed when I do. Wants me to stay with him all the time and he keeps trying to ask me something, but gets flustered and stops. I think he's going to propose!" Isabel did a delighted little dance and squeal before disappearing back behind the door.

Cara smiled, '_propose?' _Knowing Isabel it was bound to be another hopeless romance. She bit her lower lip, musing over the conversation.

Marcos had been keeping the two of them busy the last three months with these random after hour gatherings. They were always small parties, never more than ten, but lasted well into the early morning. Marcos nearly had a nervous breakdown each time. Something big was going on and Cara knew, just like everyone else, it was something not to get involved in. People disappeared here at _Il Palazzo's_.

That's why she quickly went to Natalie's aid, ushered guests to their tables, took their orders, served them their food, and made sure she did it all with a smile. Still, Cara couldn't help but notice each time Marcos emerged from the smoking room. His face shining with sweat, hands shaking slightly when he swept them through his hair. Oh yes, something big was happening tonight.

~o~o~

Cara placed the small pink box carefully on the prep table. The dining hall was clean, supplies stocked, and ready for tomorrow's business. The other waitresses had gone home hours before, the cooks following after the party's dinner had been served, and dessert was sitting ready to go in the fridge. All that was left for Isabel and Cara was to serve the delicate cream pastries, wash the dishes, and go home. For now, though, they could sit back and relax. There was always a small break in-between supper and dessert. So they had some time to enjoy themselves.

Isabel perched languidly on a folding chair, legs stretched in front of her and crossed at the ankles. She looked up from the newspaper she was skimming through. The paper crinkled as her fingers clutched the crisp edges and she sat up straight.

She gasped. "Oh, Cara, that's not _Angelo's,_ is it?"

Isabel leaned toward the box more than a little excited. Cara bit her lip, suppressing her grin, and lifted the lid with a flourish. They both sighed with rapture at the sight. Inside was nestled a perfectly petite chocolate cake. It was decorated with tiny white candles, delicate fudge roses, decadent ribbons of mouthwatering dark chocolate swirls, and soft coconut flakes.

Isabel moaned as she inhaled a big whiff. "Oh, it smells so good. There's no mistaking an _Angelo's_ cake." She looked up at Cara, a little teary eyed.

"Happy Birthday Isabel."

She squealed, sprang up out of her chair, and engulfed Cara in a backbreaking hug. "Cara, Thank You! It's simply the best birthday gift! Thanks so much for this." Isabel shook her back in forth in her excitement, crying a little, and repeating herself. Cara hugged her back, grinning. So like Isabel to get choked up over good food. She had such a sweet tooth.

Cara patted her on the back, "Okay, okay. Are you going to eat your cake or are you going to keep crushing me?"

Isabel released her and clapped her hands together. She hopped from foot to foot while she watched Cara light the candles. Cara stepped back as she lit the last one and said, "Make a wish."

Isabel leaned over the cake and closed her eyes. After a few seconds contemplation her eyes flew open, she inhaled, and blew the candles out in one breath. Cara gave her a knife and set out the plates and forks. Isabel paused just a second, savoring the look of the cake, and then plunged the knife in, cutting two healthy sized pieces.

The girls hopped up onto the counter, both setting their plates on their laps, and clinked forks before taking a bite. They closed their eyes as they savored the taste.

After a beat Cara spoke. "Now that's some damn good cake."

Isabel made a sound of agreement and took another bite. The two enjoyed their cake in contented bliss. That is until a small timer went off signaling the end of their sparse break time.

They groaned, set their half empty plates aside, and hopped down from the counter. Cara brushed her skirt absently and walked over to the fridge for the desserts. Isabel shut the timer off and rolled the trolleys over to Cara.

Together they arranged the delicacies onto the fine china and filed out of the kitchen. It was routine that after they cleared away the dinner plates they were to wait exactly thirty minutes and then go back to the smoking room to serve dessert. Then they simply hung back in the kitchen until Marcos appeared and told them to clean up.

Cara was in front, pushing her trolley to the right of the dining hall toward the smoking room. Before she'd even gotten halfway there she knew something was wrong. The doors were huge oak masterpieces and within view from anywhere in the dining hall. Tonight, for the first time, Marcos wasn't waiting impatiently outside of them. He was nowhere to be seen.

Every hair on Cara's body stood on end when she reached the doors, Isabel just behind her. This wasn't normal and it reeked of things gone wrong, very wrong. Marcos wasn't anywhere and one of the doors was slightly ajar. She could hear deep voices coming from within and what sounded like hamburger being slapped onto a cutting board.

Isabel peeked around Cara, wondering what the holdup was, and froze. Cara could feel the tension and fear rolling of off her. She was getting the same vibe as her, bad, very bad.

Isabel swallowed audibly, "Maybe we should just go back to the kitchen. I don't like this at all Cara, its got disaster written all over it. Something very wrong is going on here."

Cara nodded in agreement, the sounds from the room were getting louder, more hostile, and it sent cold shivers shooting down her spine. She was just about to turn her trolley around; Isabel had already backed up, when a scream stopped them cold in their tracks.

It was the scream of a man in horrible pain. Isabel spun around, her eyes wild.

"Peter?" She nearly choked.

She stumbled over to the door, Cara right behind her, trying to hold her steady. Isabel was shaking as they peered through the crack.

Seven large men were gathered around a grand mahogany table. The lighting was soft, there were drinks scattered about in thick glasses. Three men were standing; one off to the side of the table, his suit expensive and cut to perfection. He was dabbing at a small red spot on one of the crisp white cuffs. Blood.

Two other men were holding a third, he was scrawny, hunched over and breathing heavily. The larger men seemed to be waiting on the other for some kind of order. After a moment the finely dressed one looked up and nodded his head slightly.

The scrawny man's face was sent with a horrible splattering sound into the table. Cara could hear multiple things crunching and he let out an ungodly scream of pain. The larger men pulled him back off the table, revealing a bloody mess of flesh and broken teeth.

Isabel gasped in horror. "Oh Peter!" She breathed.

Peter mumbled something and his head went back into the table in a sickening crunch. His scream came out gurgled this time and some of the glasses were sprayed with spit and blood. The men pulled him back up. Cara felt sick; the hamburger sound had been Peter's face being ground into the table.

This time Peter cried out and there was no mistaking him. "I swear to God. I'm not a rat. I don't know how they found out about Chicago. I don't know. I don't…" The last words were lost in a sob. Tears ran down his face, leaving tracks in the blood.

Isabel clutched Cara's arm. "We have to do something! They're going to kill him!" She whispered desperately.

Cara looked at her and then back in the room. Every man was armed with at least one gun, most had more, and each was twice their size. They had no weapons and no time.

"Please, Cara! Please help me! I can't let them kill Peter!" Isabel's tears were dripping onto her shirt. She looked at Cara pleadingly.

Another look in the room, the beaten man, the deadly mobsters, and back to Isabel's devastated face.

She took a deep breath, "Alright, this is what we're going to do…"


End file.
